Page 14 of The Heat is On

But he could live with a few rules in exchange for sunshine and cool air and the arch of the blue sky overhead. The sun gilded the snow-capped mountains to the east, turning them to molten gold as he worked. Even the earth smelled of hope and life and something better out there.

“Put out any fires that make it over the line!”

Another firefighter had come down from where he’d been working the western edge of the fire, armed with a long oil can that dripped fire. He ran along the line and dropped flame into the area between the line and the oncoming fire.

Rio could hear it over the ridge, roaring, consuming. Death, rolling toward him, finding his soul.

Not today. Although sweat poured down his face, saturated his body, and soot layered his skin, he could spend the rest of his life out here.

Or at least the next six days, until Darryl’s court date.

Rio kept his eyes on Darryl, of course. The man had said nothing as Rio climbed aboard the chopper, clearly still unaware of Rio’s assignment. Rio had played it cool over the past month, lingering around Darryl but rarely engaging, his job to protect.

Except, of course, a few times when he got close enough to suggest that Darryl might be in trouble from his boss. That even in prison, Buttles could find him. Rio went so far once as to suggest that Buttles had found him. Showed him an old scar on his rib cage that had nothing to do with Buttles but turned Darryl a little pale.

Just a gentle reminder that lives might be at stake—namely, Darryl’s.

Rio wasn’t sure why he’d noticed Tucker heading up to the ridge, probably to cast an eye on the fire, but Rio had heard the thunder of a chopper in the distance. He had stepped away from the line and smoke to watch as the bucket extending from the body of the bird dumped water in a smoky splash beyond the ridge.

The fire sizzled, gray smoke cutting into the black.

Then, Tucker had appeared on the ridge and stood there, a frame of yellow against the churning smoke.

Rio could like Tucker. He had a no-nonsense, get-’er-done attitude about him. Too bad Tucker had already pegged him as trouble—maybe they could have been friends.

Rio had heard Tucker chatting with Archer Mills, the ex-cop, about the crew during a water break. In his late fifties, Archer had taken natural command of the crew, and why not? He knew how to handle criminals, if his history as a cop was correct. He’d huddled up with Tucker to give him the lowdown on their rap sheets. Rio hadn’t caught much of the conversation, but when he heard, “Don’t worry, kid. I’m watching him,” he tried not to think the worst.

Okay, yes. They had probably been talking about him. Because out of all the crew, he was the one with the gang aura. A tattoo on the back of his neck, a scar on his jaw—although that had been from a ski accident when he was ten—and enough of a wariness about him that probably came off as a tough guy stance.

Really, he was just keeping everybody in his sights.

Although, honestly, no one else looked like trouble. The three youngest with the drunk and disorderlies worked like they might be at summer camp, grinning and laughing. The guy named Thorne was tall and quiet and screamed military with eyes that looked right through a man. But he worked hard. Pudgy and red-headed, Darryl looked like he wanted to collapse on the ground and weep. He probably wondered how he’d gotten signed up for this gig.

The last guy was a tourist. Brown hair. Glasses. Skinny, but with a little muscle. Clancy Smythe, college professor-slash-pot enthusiast. Probably had come to Alaska on summer break to explore his hippie side.

So maybe Rio could loosen up. It wasn’t like he was working with Ocean’s Eleven.

His gut, maybe, had made him cast another gaze toward Tucker on the ridge.

Tucker had turned on the hill, as if to head back toward the fire line.

And just like that, he vanished. Disappearing behind the ridge where the flames licked up the hill.

Rio didn’t stop to think.

Maybe it was the cauldron of fire boiling over the ridge.

Maybe it was the suddenness, the shock of seeing it happen right there.

Maybe it was simply the fact that for once in his life he could do something right now to help someone. He didn’t have to sneak into a prison or an outlaw biker gang, make friends, deceive people with the hopes of betraying them.

He could do something.

He’d dropped his shovel and sprinted down the line, then up the ridge on the rocky edge where the fire couldn’t burn.

And yeah, he heard yelling, but he ignored it. Topped the ridge, breathing hard.

The fire rocked him back. The flame lengths had doubled, the cinders circling in the tornado of ash and smoke. It charged up the hill, consuming brush and grass, stump and tree, and scrambling just feet ahead of it with an ugly gait was Tucker.